Sunday"s After Church

Sundays were a special time of the week. We all got dressed for church, faces washed, hair combed, and every female wore a hat to church. This was a mark of respect for the Holy Institution. It was hard to sit through a whole mass. We fidgeted, we poked each other behind the back, and we grimaced at each other when the parents weren’t watching. However when dad caught our antics his look could freeze us on the spot. He was the Patriarch and not to be taken lightly.

When Mass was over we filed out into our famous Woody station wagon and headed for the Jewish Deli on Ralph Street. It was an incredibly small store with goods piled up literally to the ceiling. I can remember watching with wonder as the son of the proprietor would use a step ladder and than this long handle to grasp the object of his customers desire. It was a routine I witnessed every time I went into that little deli. I also remember the great big wooden barrel loaded with big, fat, plump dill pickles. It’s deli fragrance permeated the store, along with the sliced meats, and variety of pickled goods. I did not pay much attention to the meat and dry goods because my eyes were always on the great big tray filled with apple turnovers, Danish, doughnuts, elephant ears and a assembly of pastries. Dad usually settled on Apple turnovers and that was our after Sunday Dinner treat.

Mom usually put on a pot roast, and within a couple of hour the whole house smelled of seasoned beef with potatoes and carrots simmering within the broth. I was so in love with the smell of the pot roast cooking that I would lift the cover just to inhale the fragrance. One time I actually sustained a burn in a semi circle across the bridge of my nose. My freckles turned pink and I was marked for a whole week as a interloper of the kitchen business. The meals were prepared with so much love and my contribution was usually peeling the potatoes. Mounds and mounds of potatoes until it felt like my hands would fall off. Ten people equal a lot of potatoes. Till this day I always peel too many potatoes for my family. After the Sunday dinner the pastry box was broken into. It was always a brown square box with a string tied unceremoniously around it. Inside were the best apple turnovers I can remember tasting. We demolished the contents of that box in less time than turning on the stove. Then came dishes and clean up and out to the yard to our home made adventures. Sundays were special, a ritual that gave us all a sense of family and predictability. What a treasure for the minds eye.